Viari
by jamie.wahls
Summary: The thought of Worm being over gave me a diabetic seizure, so much like the man who creates a tragic mannequin of his dead wife, so too do I write this inelegant swill masquerading as wildbows cultured prose. New characters, new plot.


Note: This fiction was inspired by the massive, 1.6 million word opus that is Worm. Wildbow is a magical elf-man who makes us all more magical by being near him. Go read it, at (parahumans . wordpress . com) . Or, if you've run out of that and need something to take the edge off, to get you through the night, why not Zoidberg?

* * *

**Viari: Chapter One**

* * *

There was another dead cat in the road today. It had been exploded by a careless driver or a cruel one, and some of the less proud birds were tearing at its flattened guts. The schoolbus pulled to a stop a few feet behind it to vomit out children, and pulled away in a hurry. Some of the boys gathered to throw rocks at the birds and each other, and Murder Kid walked on home.

Gray water slapped against the piers, bobbing the massive ships slightly, water sliding greasy off of their iron hulls. There was a noise when the ships were thrown, a bell-like noise like the entire ship was hollow and the water against that iron hull could resonate inside. Maybe it didn't work when the ships were full.

The docks were busy again today, cranes stacking massive shipping containers over one another, crosshatching, setting up a hobo hive. The lowest-rent living possible. It was illegal, probably. Rope ladders were already being strung, before the top of the hive was even completed, and folks who lived on the bottom level were moving in mattresses. Kid didn't stop walking.

Benton stepped up from a basement doorway, wiping blood off of the short club he carried. He had caved a woman's skull in with a wine bottle last weekend, and public consensus was still undecided on if his reasons had been good. As he saw Kid he tensed. His gaze darted around, focusing on spots behind Kid, and he made a thin, anxious smile.

"I'm alone." said Kid, weary. "I'm just walking home."

Benton nodded, tension leaving his shoulders. He raised two fingers in a sloppy salute and cast his eyes down. "Hey, much respect to your father, girl. Send him my regards."

Kid nodded mutely, eyes down. _I'll save your life and not do that._

"And you still shouldn't be walking alone, girl, no matter who your daddy is." He finished. "Last night was the Fledging."

A few blocks later, she was home. The chain link gates drew open for her with a heavy mechanized rattle, and Anders nodded once at her, curtly, nursing a cigarette. The Kalash hung from his neck with a frayed strap.

Anders caught her looking and gave a small smile. "One day, Kid. Be patient."

Kid walked in.

Lohengrin flashed a smile at her as she entered. "Kid! How are you?"

The living room was a strange blend of 1950's decor and military iconography, brown carpet and old, thoroughly smoked-in couches between hanging red flags and recruitment posters. Lohengrin sat behind a massive, antique desk, the most pretentious piece of furniture anyone in the family owned. A few of his lieutenants sat on the sofa, and waved at Kid amicably as she approached. Porkpie was cooking something meaty on the stove, and the smell of it mingled with old cigarettes and stale beer and sizzled throughout the room. It smelled like home.

"Hi dad." said Kid.

"Take some guys and kill a few." said Lohengrin to Ulrich. "They can't be tagging in our territory, and if anyone sees it, we lose face. How was school?"

Logengrin rummaged in his desk as the fan turned slowly overhead. Yellowed lampshades cast a jaundiced light over brown carpet. No one had ever taken off their shoes to walk here.

"Not great." said Kid. "I was-"

"Frankie!" yelled Lohengrin. "Get in here."

"I was playing with some of the boys, and-"

"Dammit, Frankie." said his father. "What did that fucking maid do with my gun? Ha! Too bad we can't ask her, right?"

A few of the lieutenants, the ones most insecure in their position, laughed from the couch.

"-and one of them disrespected me." Kid finished quietly.

There was silence. Every head turned.

Her father's full attention was terrible to weather, like trying to stare into the sun. Her eyes watered as she tried to keep from blinking. Her father had taught her not to back down or show weakness, and if she wavered now there would be punishment.

"Give me his name." said Lohengrin flatly.

"Brian Bernstein." said Kid.

Her father nodded, once, curtly. "Joey." he said, toneless.

One of the newer recruits nodded, swallowed, nodded.

And the spell broke. The lieutenants turned away, back to a reality show about alligators. Porkpie went back to cooking, and Lohengrin began to absently run his fingers along the grooves in his desk, eyes distant. "C'mere, Kid." he said.

Kid approached, aware of the exact moment she was within arms reach.

"You mean a lot to me, Kid." said her father, tracing the mars in the surface of his desk. "Don't you ever forget that." He tousled Kid's blonde hair. "And if someone disrespects you, they disrespect me. Don't you forget."

He raised his head up. "Don't any of you forget!" The lieutenants nodded and gave distracted salutes.

He let go of Kid, turned away.

She walked into the kitchen, sidled past Porkpie. He sat on his stool, hairy arms bare, smoking a cigarette directly over the steaks he was cooking. She reached into the freezer to get a waffle and he grunted at her.

"Sorry to hear about that thing at school." he said absently. "Happens to a lot of kids your age."

"Don't fucking talk to me today." snapped Kid. "If you say another word I'll tell Lohengrin you touched me and he'll cut off your dick."

Porkpie's eyebrows shot up, and he remained silent.

Murder Kid stared at a spot on his forehead for a moment, then looked away. "Now make me a waffle."

Outside, it began to rain.

o-o-o

It was a bad day for a parade.

The open sores in the road where manhole covers weren't had been hidden with planks of wood, at least so no one would fall in. The streets weren't ready for cars yet, and probably wouldn't be for months. Successful civic action required both the ability and the desire to do something without direct personal gain. No one here had either.

Rain drizzled, not washing away the filth of last nights bloodshed, just making it sticky. Smashed doorframes gaped like missing teeth and whistled with the wind. Hollow-eyed people boarded up windows, bedraggled, but not so far gone that they couldn't still know fear. Not yet.

The parade wouldn't begin for ten minutes. There was no music. There were no motorcars or waving clowns or long, streaming scarves. There was no JFK, and the nearest grassy knoll was in a different country.

Last night was Fledging Day.

Gangs had torn at the city like a wounded animal, creating terror for terror's sake, almost. Beginning at sundown, shops had been looted, fires set, homes invaded. The lucky people huddled together through the night in shelters, drunk, not listening to the screams. The smart people waited in shelters, with guns, listening to everything. Most people just waited.

There were those who had not waited.

There were those for whom Fledging Day was both Halloween and Christmas, and they had waited with barely contained excitement until they could put on their scary masks and go door to door. Those people were mostly asleep or dead now. They had had a busy night.

And today the city would see its investment repaid, see who had emerged from Fledging Day different. That which had not killed them had made them stranger, and a procession would make its grim way up that street in just ten minutes.

Less, now.

There was no music and no streetcar, but crowds did gather. These weren't the clever people or the lucky people—they were still inside. They weren't most people: they were putting out fires and cleaning the blood off the walls and they were, all of them, so, very, alone.

No, these were the other people. It's not so simple, to call them one type of people, but many- most- of these who were standing in the crowd...

They were the bad people.

They waited, now, a different kind of excitement from last night, when the greed and lust and nihilistic revels had filled their heads like visions of sugarplums and they had giggled with anticipation. Anticipation of presents torn open, sweets devoured, festive boys' games played. Ah, it had been a good one.

Five minutes, now.

The anticipation today was different. Exciting, yes, but afraid. Usually, a pattern was followed, and those who had earned their stripes became that which they had once feared, sidling up to the darkness and calling it friend. They had been afraid, so afraid, and they would do anything to make that fear stop, even put it on others. Humans are, after all, motivated to love themselves more than their neighbor. If that means that I have to do it to a dozen neighbors, a hundred, so be it, anything, just, never again. Please. Never again.

So the lucky people, and the clever people, were hiding, not wanting to become neighbors. The rest, those other people, many bad, waited. They didn't wear masks today. That privilege was reserved for a special few. The bad people watched and chapped lips were drawn tight over teeth like bad corn and they sweated.

Won't be long now.

It was a bad day for a parade. Every day after Fledging Day was bad.

One of the bad people in the crowd, who did wear a mask, who hadn't been a bad person last year but who had become one since, was crying. His sweat was acrid and chemical, his body trying to clean itself. Maybe his soul was doing the same thing, out his eyes. His name was Titan.

He was crying because he knew that he deserved to die, that they all did, but they just kept living. Especially he. His body was stubborn, it refused to die, it clung jealous to life no matter what collapsed on whom or what moral arguments his mind could entertain. And when the lucky people got unlucky or the clever people should have packed one more bullet, they would die. But not him. And when the good people were in the wrong place or the right place they could die too. But not Titan.

Enough. It was time now, finally. They were coming.

The tiny procession made its way up the street, boots and sneakers and a few sandals splashing in the dirty puddles. Masks were improvised out of bedsheets and socks and pants, and that was good. No one had a mask lying around. No one hoped for this, if they knew what it meant.

It was a good crop this year, five new ones, all young. Their responses were all different, as the bad people leered on at them. Some stared back, fearful, not confident yet, or traumatized badly, freshly. Another had a note of defiance, a sneer, a curl in her lip and darting eyes as she planned vengeance on a specific few. One just stared.

Those two could be a problem.

The last, a boy in a green mask with feathers, just waved, smiling, at everyone.

o-o-o

This is probably a test.

Joey gripped the crowbar too tight in his gloved fist. His weapon tonight was one he had seen before. It had already been used so much the bend was near gone, lost amidst other dents put into the metal, one broken skull at a time. They didn't trust him with a gun, yet. He didn't know how to use one anyway.

_ Did they know he was twelve when they sent me here?_

He had tried to ask, earlier. Lohengrin had been smoking and sitting at the big desk, just sitting, staring at nothing. He had briefly met Joey's eyes, nodded at him.

"Good hunting."

And that was it. He was on his own.

He dropped low, waited underneath the open window. Cooking smells wafted down to him, mingling with the fresh night air. His back was pressed against the irregular wooden siding of the house, and it pinched.

He waited there, muscles cramping, as minutes stretched by. It was chilly, and he could feel sweat growing clammy underneath his ski mask. His legs were stiff.

_ The boring parts get skipped,_ he mused, heart still beating fast. _The stories told afterward don't say, "And then I sat in the dark for two hours, nearly pissing myself."_

The lights inside turned off. It was almost time.

_ This is stupid, _thought Joey. _Am I seriously gonna beat a twelve year old because he 'disrespected' a different twelve year old?_

The alternative was Lohengrin punishing his failure, so yes, probably.

There had to be some way out of this. Something that would communicate the message, not be dire enough to get anyone big involved, and also keep Joey alive.

_ Think, asshole._

A warning. What were Lohengrin's goals here? A healthy respect and safety for Kid, without letting on that Kid was related. So Kid needed to appear to either be personally powerful, or have powerful friends, and they didn't want to tip off the Wards that Kid was anything but a regular twelve year old girl.

How important was it that Kid got personal rep from this? Not particularly.

So then how...

He steeled himself. This was... some kind of a plan.

The toys on the shelf, snakes and dragons and superhero figures, cast crawling, spiny shadows on the wall. The nightlight in the room was a sconce, a little bluish seashell-shaped piece of glass with the word "Hawaii" drawn in long, garish letters along the base. It cast a gentle glow on him as he stood leaning over the bed.

He kept his hand clasped over the boy's mouth.

"Now you listen here, you little shit." he hissed. "You've been bad, Brian. And I think you know what you did."

The boy shook his head mutely, wide-eyed in terror.

"You know, I don't think I believe you." Joey swung the crowbar into the pillow a foot from the boy's head. It hit with a heavy _whumph_, the pointed end biting, and the pillow tore. The boy let out a muffled, desperate sob. He shook his head more fervently, whimpering into Joey's glove.

"Oh, really? Does the name..." _Shit, what was Kid's actual name... _"The name Laisa jog your memory?"

Brian's brow furrowed a little. Joey lifted the hand off of his mouth.

Brian swallowed once, licked his lips. "I... she told me to give her my pudding cup and I didn't."

There was a silence.

"And that was a _mistake_." Joey intoned. "Because you didn't know that Laisa is under the protection of... the Bullying Avenger."

"Um." Brian's eyes darted around. "Shouldn't you be on my side?"

Joey smiled, a thin line. "You misunderstand. No, I'm not on your side. You need to do whatever Laisa says from now on."

Brian nearly dislodged himself from Joey's grip in his vigorous nodding.

"If you tell anyone I was here, I'll kill your family. If you disrespect Laisa again, I'll kill your family. If you go to the police, blah blah family blah. You get it?"

Brian kept nodding, eyes wide.

"Great!" said Joey, smiling big and letting the boy see teeth. "Keep that can-do attitude and we'll never have this talk again."

A minute later, he was climbing out the window and taking off his mask. He paused, leaning his head against the wall for a moment, listening to the sound of his own breathing.

The police would be coming soon, maybe. The kid still might say something. He should go.

He glanced down, saw his hands were trembling. He clenched his eyes shut, forced himself to be still.

_ Stupid, stupid. _

His breath came in ragged gasps, and his eyes widened in panic.

_ No not now dammit-_

He patted himself down frantically, looking for it- he tore off his gloves and threw them down-

_ Please please please god please-_

He finally found it, tucked deep into his waistband. He pulled it free, shook it, pressed it to his lips. Depressed the canister. Took a deep breath. Another.

_ Fuck._

He sighed again, a small noise in the dark that only made him feel smaller.

_ That went better than anyone could have hoped, _some part of him reassured. _Think of all the other lieutenants who would have just chucked a molotov in there and called it done._

He paused. No one would actually-

No, they would, Anders would. And Lohengrin would just laugh, too.

_ Fuck._

There was a hot, queasy sensation bubbling in his gut, one he hadn't felt in years. Not since he had tearfully told his mother what he had done to the neighbor boy and she slapped him, in fury and disbelief. His breath was coming easier now, not as tight, but that was just the medication. He didn't deserve it.

The new tattoo itched on his shoulder, painful underneath his leathers.

He straightened up and rubbed his eyes. It was late. He should get back to base. Lohengrin would want his report.

o-o-o

Lohengrin was all smiles. "Welcome, welcome!"

The parade had marched down Gretiot street, a long half-mile, dragging an expanding crowd of interested, nervous, bad people. The parade ended at the Palace. It was weatherbeaten and rickety, a glorified shack. The red paint had peeled long ago, and the wooden exterior kept only flecks of color in small, spotty patches. It looked like the place had herpes.

For all that, the Palace stayed in business. It was a bar that served only onion rings and beer, both excellent. And whenever needed, it served as neutral ground.

Behind the bar, empty gloves wiped a glass, held it up to the light, wiped it again. Maybe it saw some persistent smudge. Who knew what it could see.

Lohengrin was all smiles. His hair was cut short, utilitarian, straight. His teeth were bright and white and orderly as a military cemetery. He didn't wear a mask. He smiled, with the brilliant warmth and confidence of someone who wins people with smiles and knows it. His gaze lingered a little too long on one of the triggers, a boy wearing a mask that looked to be made out of a sock. Lohengrin's eyes narrowed.

Three tables were pushed together into a trapezoid, letting the four gang leaders sit in a panel facing the five initiates. Firebug glanced at Jumper. These kids looked more raw than usual.

"Welcome." Firebug echoed. "And congratulations on surviving last night. If you're seated here now, it means that you've come through your traumas stronger. You won't ever have to worry about food, rent, school, anything like that again. You're valuable, now, no matter how minor your power is."

She blinked. One of the new triggers had foregone a mask, just covering themselves head to toe with a bedsheet. It looked like a terrible ghost costume.

"You can be famous." came Jumper, standing up. His costume was purple, garish. He leaned in towards the initiates. "You've probably watched movies your entire lives about heroes, villains, people with powers. Noble struggles against horrible monsters, and the glamour of it all! Well now, that's you. Welcome to the winning team."

"Power." spoke Beatdown, his voice a low growl. "Now you have power."

All four leaders leaned back, speeches done. They edged away from one another slightly, an almost imperceptible current of unease.

"Anyway." spoke Firebug. "We'd all like to see you demonstrate your new powers. Do we have a volunteer to go first?"

After a brief hesitation, a girl stood. "Okay."

She couldn't have been more than seventeen. She moved like she hadn't yet grown into herself, gawky and a little tense. Her jeans were torn at the knees. Her tank top looked old, smelled old. Her mask was one of the paper-thin black plastic kind given out at parties, the ones that came in a twelve-pack at the Walmart.

"Have you picked a name?" asked Firebug gently.

The girl nodded. "Fumbles."

The corners of Lohengrin's lips twitched upwards. "You might want to choose something more intimidating."

The girl shrugged, a quick, self-conscious lift of the shoulders, and looked at the floor.

"The name is fine." reassured Firebug.

"Show us your powers." said Beatdown impatiently.

"Um." she said. "I make people trip, or guns jam. How do you want to test me?"

There was a slight stiffening of all four leaders.

"Coins?" Jumper said, pulling two quarters from his pocket. "Do you think you could do coins?"

She could do coins.

Minutes later, Lohengrin glanced at the others, the fading afterimage of that winning smile still playing about his lips. "I'd like to make my pitch first, if no one has any objections."

He stood, and made eye contact with four of the five initiates. "It's no secret that my territory is the safest in the city. We're proud of that. We have the lowest crime, we don't deal drugs, and we're keeping the good people safe. We do that through trusting one another. On my team, you're not just an asset, you're part of our family. My family."

He smiled broadly at all of them. "Additionally, there's a four thousand dollar signing bonus, lodging and board, a monthly stipend, and..." he leaned in and winked, "we have a Foosball table."

He saw a raised hand. The sock boy. "Yes?"

"Aren't you Nazis?"

Lohengrin paused, lips pursed, and gave a small, pitying half smile. "The Nation is about so much more than that. It's about family," he paused, "and it's about family on a grand scale. We're fighting to safeguard the very existence of our race." He shook his head. "Nazis."

Jumper piped up. "Or, if you don't want to join a gang of white supremacists, and instead are thinking of something more along the lines of classy, international art thieves, the Highwaymen are always recruiting. We-"

In the distance, the siren sounded, a long, mournful howl.

The bar became very still.

"You're fucking kidding me." spat Beatdown.

The young triggers were dead silent. Jumper turned to Firebug.

"Behemoth was projected for New Delhi, right?" he murmured low. "This can't be an Endbringer attack...?"

"It's not a drill." muttered Firebug, squinting out the window. It was dark outside. No obvious pillars of fire rising yet.

Lohengrin was speaking urgently into a cell phone. He strode away from the group, walking out the door without looking back. It closed with a bang. Firebug turned to the young capes.

"Endbringer or not, whatever this is_,_ our job is the same. The civilians get to the shelters, we get to the rendezvous and coordinate with the heroes for the defense. This could be something as normal as a flood. Doesn't matter if you've had your powers a year or a day, you still help."

Fumbles began to protest, and the boy in the green feathered mask raised his hand. "I don't actually have powers, I just wanted to-"

He never said what he wanted. Beatdown was on him in a flash, lifting him, pinning him against the wall, hitting him faster than the eye could track, over and over. It made a noise like a jackhammer in a pig. A second later, the boy dropped, sliding down the wall, pulped beyond recognition and bleeding out onto the floor.

Beatdown stepped back. His eyes locked with each of the remaining triggers in turn, expressionless. They had stopped talking.

Firebug's mouth hung open. She looked about to speak, then shook her head.

"Let's go." she said at last.

o-o-o

The streets were filled with running people, and Logan dodged them ineffectually. Most ran for the shelters, a foolish few fought against the pressing crowd, spurred by loved ones or a favorite painting or a particularly foolish notion.

Passerby—runnerby—barely spared a glance for the group. Beatdown forged a path, throwing people aside, efficient as a cow catcher and half as gentle. Soon, he emerged from the throng, towing the young triggers behind him like poorly-dressed ducklings.

"We're here." he rumbled, audible despite the sirens. Logan looked up.

The gray bulk of the Protectorate tower stretched up into the darkening evening sky.

They entered through double doors, already open. The space was large enough to drive buses through, and in the center of the room there stood a monument to unrealistic ambition that was two thirds of a fountain.

On good days, civilians could take a tour, sitting down in one of the conference rooms and watching a presentation on the importance of the local hero team. On special days, they could ride the elevator to the top of the tower and watch one of the fliers land. If anyone was so inclined, they could stop at the gift shop and collect licensed HeroCards and duel one another.

Today was not a good day. There was a small mob of people clamoring at the reception desk, shouting, thrusting pictures of family members forward, demanding shelter or information or that _somebody DO something_!A ragged line of eight PRT soldiers stood between them and the elevators, pushing back when pushed, and repeating that civilians should go to the shelter.

"It hasn't been twenty minutes." Firebug muttered. "This got bad quickly."

"My son is out there!" pleaded a man in a business suit. "Is this an Endbringer attack?"

"We don't know yet, sir."

"MOVE!" bellowed Beatdown.

"Heroes coming through, sir." The PRT soldier spoke, flat.

With some confusion and agitation, the soldiers shoved the crowd enough that a narrow corridor formed, and the group advanced through.

Fumbles screamed as a civilian thrust past a PRT soldier, grabbing for her.

The soldier clubbed the man with a baton, and the riot was begun.

The corridor of space eked from the crowd collapsed immediately. The soldiers laid into the mob, their batons flashing barely visible over their heads.

Beatdown and Jumper both vanished in blurs, disappearing from Logan's view.

_ Well this is awful_, he thought.

He ducked down low, staying crouched, trying to drive himself forward amidst the press of bodies. He wove through the crowd, elbows jabbing him. The hot stink of humanity was particularly ripe, in here. A knee caught him in the back, driving him to the ground. A heavy weight pressed on his back.

"Please!" screamed the man. "My son!"

Logan fought to turn over. The man was too heavy.

A hand reached his shoulder, clutched too tight. "I need- I need you to save him, please-"

"Everybody freeze!" screamed a raw voice from the back of the crowd.

A bulging-eyed man held a knife to Fumbles' throat. The crowd became still in patches, with stray punches and an afterthought of a kick to the head.

"Now I don't want much." said the man, his upper lip twitching slightly.. "But I think it's fair to say that you _heroes_ have a better shelter than the ones outside, right?!"

Beatdown stopped kicking, snapped into focus, hesitated.

"That's close enough." the man said, backing away from Beatdown. "I know you. And you've gotta be in range, right? So that's fucking close enough."

"I'm a celebrity." growled Beatdown. But he stopped.

The man dragged Fumbles backward, stepping farther away from Beatdown. The knife was stubby and cheap looking, but it pulled skin taut underneath it. It looked like it had seen use. Logan watched, very still, as the back of the man's sneaker inched towards him in quick, darting steps.

_ Come on._

"So what we're gonna do, here," the man drawled, "is you're all gonna stay back, and me and this lady are gonna walk on through, down to the shelter, and we're all gonna have a nice sit-down until this whole thing gets fixed. And _you_-" he gestured at Beatdown with the knife, a quick little stab in the air. "-will fucking stay out. I know you."

Fumbles twisted very slightly in his grip, and suddenly the man was sprawling backwards as though he'd backed into a calf-high fence. He landed gracelessly on the floor, face hitting inches away from Logan.

Logan reached out for him. And smiled. _You don't know me._

o-o-o_  
_

Four seconds later, Logan let go.

The man screamed, a rising note of pure panic, staring in horror at Logan.

"It was you!" he shrieked. "It was always you!"

"It was." nodded Logan.

"No!" he screamed. "No more!"

He fled, tripping and scrambling, knocking aside members of the crowd. Jumper popped into existence in his way, and dropped him with a efficient clothesline.

The crowd had spread out around Logan, giving him an empty bubble in the throng. He rose unsteadily, acutely aware of the collective attention, wishing he wasn't wearing a sock on his face.

The crowd was still, now. Jumper cleared his throat.

"This...mob thing is over, please. Return to your homes."

"The shelters." murmured Firebug, as she helped a PRT soldier stand.

"Return to the shelters." corrected Jumper breathlessly. "Whatever. Leave. You're getting in the way."

There was grumbling until Beatdown flung one across the room.

"Crisis situation." Jumper hastily apologized. "We'll buy him something after."

The group entered the elevator with one of the soldiers. He turned a key, input a four-digit code, and pressed a button. The elevator lurched to life.

"So, kid." Jumper began. "That was pretty good."

"Thanks." said Logan.

"Have you ever considered..." he trailed off. Firebug was giving him a look. "Do you have a name?"

Logan nodded. "Logan."

Jumper closed his eyes and Beatdown hissed air out between his teeth. "Kid, don't tell me your actual name."

Logan could feel heat rising in his cheeks. "I didn't."

"Uh huh. So have you _picked_ a name?"

Logan nodded a little too quickly. "I'm thinking Lethe."

"That's solid." Jumper gave a sidelong smile. "Strangers are always in demand."

"You know what," started Firebug, "we never did introductions, really. We know Fumbles-" she nodded at the brunette girl, standing in the corner like she was afraid of taking up space, "-and now we know Lethe, but have you two picked names yet?"

The two triggers, a boy in blue and the girl in the bedsheet, looked at one another.

"Roadblock." said the girl.

"Watcher In The Night: The Sphinx." said the boy.

"Huh." said Jumper.

The elevator doors slid open. They looked out upon the underground command center.

"Glad you could make it." said Pulsar dryly. "Though not all of us run on villain time."

He was tall, but the suggestive etching on his costume couldn't hide the decay of a once-imposing physique. The hood he wore was black, with pale blue lines running up the sides. Fringes of graying hair at his temples peeked from underneath his mask. He dismissed the soldier in the elevator with a sharp salute.

A projector was already assembled and projected the name VIARI onto the stone wall.

"You waited for us?" asked Jumper.

"Wait, is this it?" asked Firebug, a rising edge of concern in her voice. "Where is everyone?"

Four members of the local PRT sat in the center of the room, Pulsar among them. Three wards waited, tense, behind them.

That was all. There were folding chairs for a hundred, arranged in tidy rows, but they were empty.

"Uh." said Jumper. His voice seemed too small in the vast lonely space. "Yeah. Where's Eidolon? Or Legend?

"Not coming." snapped Pulsar. He shot Jumper a warning glance. "The situation is...not good.

"I don't know if any of you are familiar with Mistress Viari...?"

The other three members of his team raised their hands, as did Firebug.

Pulsar exhaled. "Okay. Mistress Viari, as she calls herself, is a pretty notorious villain. I'd love to tell you her powers, but we don't know them, because they're different every time."

"How so?" asked Jumper.

"Now, this isn't certain, exactly," said Pulsar, "but evidence suggests that Mistress Viari cannot die."

He paused for a moment, as though waiting for someone to interject. No one did.

He clicked a remote for the projector, and a blurry photograph of a young woman appeared on the wall.

"She first declared herself to the cape community in eastern Russia, two years ago. At the time, she demonstrated flight, the ability to create and control massive fires, and a severe megalomania. She was not, in the end, particularly effective. After she declared that she would burn the earth and boil the seas, she was killed by an unpowered sniper. Pretty routine, really.

"Two months later, in Kazakhstan, some unknown male declares that he's Mistress Viari, and then manifests either a biological tinker power or _control over viruses_ and kills half a million. Insists he's her, gives details about the fights in Russia, and gets put down hard by some international capes. They were trying to take him alive, he kills herself with some disease." He clicked the remote again. A picture of a corpse with black swellings all across it.

"After that, declares herself in France. An old woman, this time. Knew details of the last fight. Claimed she would crack the earth and burn the country. And she did."

He clicked the remote. Fire.

"She was a pretty powerful shaker, that time. Pompeii times five. Massive damage, even if the death toll wasn't nearly so bad as her virus phase. We got lucky and a monument collapsed on top of her.

"Forty minutes ago, she declared herself here. She said she would see us all dancing like marionettes on her puppet strings." he gazed out on the assembled capes.

"So I am concerned."

Firebug frowned and glanced at the wall. "Why is she telegraphing her powers? That's... kind of silly."

"I don't think we're dealing with someone who values subtlety." said Pulsar tiredly.

"Plus she can't be very smart." joked Jumper. "I mean, seriously, who'd want to come to Detroit?"

"It's a straight line." said a boy suddenly.

Pulsar paused. "Who are you?"

"Watcher In The Night: The Sphinx." said Watcher In The Night: The Sphinx. His costume looked more professional, voluminous midnight blue robes with a face-concealing wrap. "She's traveling in a straight line, almost."

Pulsar nodded. "Good to know." He turned back.

"The response to this threat was immediate. Within minutes of Viari declaring herself- we don't know what she looks like, by the way- within minutes, quarantine was established.

"The entire city is currently within Biodome's power. Nothing comes in or out. We still have communications, but it looks like this-" he gestured over them "-is the army we use."

"When you say nothing..." began Firebug, hesistantly.

"Nothing." said Pulsar flatly. "That includes air. Either we resolve this situation, or in a little under three days, the situation resolves itself."

There was a silence.

"Oh my _God."_ said Fumbles.

Pulsar gave her an odd look. "Yes. You can all see the threat that Viari poses, given the scale on which her powers tend to manifest. The Protectorate has decided that, if it truly comes to it, this city is expendable."

"Goddamn." said Jumper. "Everybody hates on Detroit."

"As it stands, we have no idea where she is. She could look like anyone, and her powers probably include controlling others, probably on a grand scale."

He cast a suspicious eye over the new triggers, glanced at Jumper. "Can you promise that these people have been in your presence since before the quarantine was sounded?"

"I solemnly swear." said Jumper.

"...Fine." Pulsar turned back. "The quarantine is as much for us as it is for the citizens. With everyone in the shelters, we have a lot less places to guard. If she's got master powers, she'll probably be looking to find servitors.

"This tower currently has the highest density of capes in the city. No one is leaving here before we have some code phrases and master protocols in place.

"Sphinx," said Pulsar, clasping his hands behind his back. "You're a thinker?"

"Yessir." said Watcher In The Night: The Sphinx immediately.

"Come plan with us. Wards and newbies, take five. There are snacks." he waved absently as he turned his back.

The PRT team members and the gang leaders pulled away from the wards and the new triggers, sitting in a loose circle by the projector.

"Don't think much of us, do they. " Logan commented to Fumbles.

She sat mutely, palms of her hands pressed over her eyes.

"Uh." he said. "So, do you want to get some of those snacks?"

She looked at him, then, with horror and disgust and raw, red eyes. "How can you be so...so _okay _with everything? We have three days until we run out of air, there's a huge villain on the loose, and we just saw-" she stumbled on the name. "-Beatdown murder someone!"

"I don't think he killed anyone." Logan scratched his chin thoughtfully. "He was throwing them around pretty hard, yeah, but I don't think he even broke any bones."

She stared at him, mouth open.

"No." she said at last. "I mean earlier. The guy in the green mask, the one with feathers. He was one of us."

Logan shook his head immediately. "He wasn't one of us."

"And none of the other capes are even talking about it! Am I the only one who's scared of him?" The question came out honest, even pleading.

"I'm-" started Logan.

_ I'm not a sociopath, I'm just used to seeing people die? _

It didn't sound better.

"Look." he tried again. "In crisis situations, people have a few options. Panicking isn't usually useful. So you sort of push aside the fear and whatever and just deal with the reality of everything. I haven't eaten anything in a while, and I would like snacks. Would you like anything?"

She stared at him like he was the ridiculous one.

"She's not used to this." murmured a voice. Logan turned.

It was one of the Wards, an older girl. Her costume was black and white in narrow horizontal bands, and a thin veil blurred her face. "I don't believe we've met."

Logan stood up. "I haven't met anyone yet. Lethe." he said, extending a hand.

She crossed her arms, but Logan thought he saw a smile spreading under the veil. "I don't touch a cape I don't know, especially ones with ominous names. We have _got _to get you a better costume, Lethe."

He felt a flush creeping up behind his ears. "Uh, yes. We're all pretty raw at this."

She laughed, and it was a beautiful, musical noise that sent shivers through him.

"We have some spare costumes." She offered. "Unless you're making the point that capes aren't necessarily glamorous."

"Not at all." he said. "I just left in a hurry this morning." He pulled up his pant leg to show her his one bare ankle.

She laughed again, and the sound of it left him quivering like a strumming harp.

A silence threatened to drag. "So, um." he almost blurted. "What are your powers?"

She nodded her head in the direction of some cabinets—the spare costumes?-and began to walk. He followed.

"I control nerves." she said.

He blinked. "That's... ridiculous."

She extended a hand to him, and he balked. She smiled, and took it back.

She threw open the cabinets. One contained rifles, grenade launchers, radios, containment foam. A second was stocked full of medical supplies and food stores. In the third hung simple costumes, the sort you could find on the C-listers of the Saturday morning cartoons.

"Stuttershock." she said.

He paused, then nodded. "Pleased to meet you."

She gestured at the costumes. "They're not bulletproof, or even particularly comfortable, but they do help you conform to the public perception of what heroes should look like."

"Got it." he said. He untied the sock, slipped on a dark green hood. "How do I look?"

She was looking at him surprised. "What?" he asked, self-conscious.

"You just showed me your face."

His mouth hung open. "Whoops."

o-o-o

Watcher In The Night: The Sphinx sat down in the inner circle. He owned the official action figure of every member of the PRT team. And he was sitting next to them.

Ferryman was dressed in a tidy brown suit. He complemented his simple mask with a brown fedora, pulled low. He was a short, unassuming looking fellow, smoking and idly twiddling the cigarette between his fingers.

_ Stressed_. Watcher told him,

_ Try harder._

_ Stained fingers. Long term smoker. Keeps looking at Jumper, watching Pulsar and Firebug. Eyes narrowed. Expecting hostility._

Sphinx paused. _They're_ e_nemies?_

_ Ex-lovers. _said Watcher.

Sphinx paused. _I've read the slashfics like everyone else, I just never thought-_

"Sphinx." said Pulsar. "Any information you can give us on Viari?"

"No." he said. _Okay, now work on Avialae._

_ Wings insufficient to support flight alone, bolstered by telekinesis? Ultra-light skeleton? Fragile. Staring at you, annoyed. Sitting comfortably, unconcerned by current-_

_ Wait, what? _Sphinx asked. He brought his attention out of his power. Everyone was staring at him.

"Oh. Uh, Viari, uh." He sent Watcher rifling through his memories. _Wasn't taken alive. Aware of resurrection? Just suicidal? Second force in play? Declaring self each time. Unafraid of death. Warranted confidence. Never lasts long. When does she awaken? Are there seed Viari further in this line? Do they know? Sleepers? What catalyzes it? Different powers, different bodies? Multiple people being possessed by same power? Multiple people being exposed to same event; triggers Viari state? People existed before becoming Viari vessel? Important question. _

He shook his head. "I don't really have anything yet." He really wanted to just sit down with each of these people and _look _at them for a while, letting Watcher drink detail and spit data.

Pulsar's eyes lingered on him for a moment.

_ Concern? Doubt. Losing value to him? Wonders if our powers are worthwhile or consistent? _

Pulsar turned to Jumper. "Where's the rest of your gang?"

Jumper shifted _embarrassed_ in his seat, smiling _false confidence. _"All of our teams were instructed to wait, so that each leader could speak with the new triggers alone. No one brings too much firepower to a neutral spot." _Said teams instead of gangs. Not watching Firebug, sitting vulnerable to her. Trust. Lying about leaders only? Watching Beatdown closely. Dangerous. _

Pulsar smiled thin, "And the PRT doesn't get an invite? We like recruiting new triggers too." _Extreme dislike. Watching Firebug/Jumper interactions. Tense. "_Detroit has about twice the number of capes it should, and unless we can get to them before Viari does, they're a liability."

_ Detroit has twice the... ?_

Sphinx abandoned the outside world altogether, and plunged down.

_ Average cape density in human population 1/50,000. Detroit pop about 700,000. Accounts for 14 parahumans. 14 parahumans in this room alone. Average super-in-gang count of... 4? Four gang leaders present at meeting. 12 capes unaccounted for. Cape population twice predicted or more. _

_ Huh. _Said Sphinx..

_ P .05_. said Watcher, unnecessarily.

_ Trigger events caused by extreme trauma/stress. Detroit extremely traumatic; violence outlier. Situation could be controlled through moderate intervention, cutting off city. Viari a front for abandonment? Controlled experiment? PRT team claimed familiarity with her before today. Situation real; or Pulsar confederate. Firebug claimed familiarity as well. Unlikely to be false. Homogeneity of information; Firebug ex-PRT?_

_ Refocus._

_ Detroit creates capes. Fledging responsible? Other explanation? Four capes debuted in Fledging this year. Lethe had powers beforehand, everyone else triggered within 24 hours. _

Sphinx paused.

_ Detroit is the superhero breadbasket of America? _

_ Situation allowed to continue; capes diffuse out, some join PRT teams, fight Endbringers, net positive for country? Hero/villain ratio important information; collect later. _

"Sphinx." said Pulsar. "What do you think?"

"Sorry, what?" he said, pulling himself out of his power. "I didn't catch that."

Pulsar sighed, a long hiss of air between his teeth. "I think it'd be best if the new triggers sat this one out."

"Because we're young." nodded Sphinx.

Pulsar hesitated. "No. Because you're new."

"Wait." interrupted Avialae. "How old do you think I am?"

Sphinx shrugged uncomfortably. "Like, thirty?"

She paused. "Christ. I'm twenty two."

Pulsar made a cutting gesture. "Enough." He glanced at Sphinx, looking increasingly dubious. He stood up.

"Attention, please." Pulsar called to the others. His gaze roamed around the room, meeting eyes.

"The PRT team will be watching population centers, coordinating with the soldiers at each of the shelters. Local gang leaders," his face was neutral, "will be collecting any extant members of their gangs, and assisting once ready." Jumper shifted a little uncomfortably.

"Of the seventeen hospitals within city limits, only Henry Ford remains open during city shutdowns. Wards will be stationed there to assist. Oasis?"

One of the wards, a girl in white, snapped to attention.

"If you suspect anything at all, have any reason to believe Viari is inside, pull the team. No heroics." She nodded.

"New triggers will stay put, and remain in the tower until the crisis is over."

"What!" Lethe interjected, a little louder than appropriate. "Why?"

Pulsar fixed him with a steady gaze. "Because most of you got your powers yesterday, have no combat experience, and have never been a part of a team. What's more, we're dealing with a Master-class villain who can probably control minds. So consider it a complement when I say I don't want to end up fighting you.

Lethe paused. "Thanks." he muttered belatedly.

"Welcome." Pulsar turned away. "Everyone who-"

His phone rang, a thin, insistent noise in the vast empty hall.

"Phones off during briefing, dude." Jumper joked. No one laughed.

"Yes?" Pulsar answered. "Okay." and then, "Slow down. What-"

The voice on the other side was tinny, urgent, shouting.

"Okay." said Pulsar again. "Put it through to the projector."

The projector went dark, then to static, then resolved into a video feed. It was dark, and smoke was rising, but crawling up the side of the a building was-

Everyone was silent.

Firebug was first to find her voice. "Is that..." she swallowed.

"Is that a fucking dragon?"


End file.
